Look here, Mr. and Mrs. Happy Pants:
The world isn’t made exclusively of rainbow-flavoured sunbeams
Emanating from the ass-crack of a fluffy white puppy half-concealed
In a cardboard box underneath an evergreen tree,
Somehow having managed to survive the tight confines
Without food or water or air-holes,
While the kids swallow their disappointment that they didn’t receive
A pony or a motorcycle or a father figure.
There’s a darkness there, an underbelly
Bristling with hairy, segmented legs and used tissues,
Smelling ripe and rotten, spongy to the touch, bitter on the tongue.
There are shadows that will eat away at your soul
Until all that’s left are the flaky remnants of yesterday’s bean-and-noodle casserole. So eat heartily, me buckos.
There’s plenty for everyone.
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